The fortunate wife

Photo: Ian Kiragu

Mother

My daughter, Fatu, is reaping the seeds of blessings she planted at her parents’ feet. Now, you see her, and envy rips its way across your bitter soul. Adama, my youngest, be careful, lest you be consumed by your hatred. When I tell you to go to the market, you pout and complain that your newly painted nails will become muddy. You still don’t know how to shred the leaves for evening meals.

You forget that a woman who respects her parents and patiently learns the wifely ways will attract the choicest of suitors. When the best has been taken, like a pot of soup at an awujoh, all that is left is the charred remains for mongrels to fight over.

Fatu brought me great pride when her in-laws spoke of her untarnished virtue. Her husband praised me for giving him a woman whose pride remained intact, especially in these days that girls wear short skirts and open their legs to the lying tongue of foolish boys whose vulture eyes are forever scanning the horizons for fresh meat. Fatu, my eldest, is a fortunate wife, and though I wish you no ill-luck, I must accept that if you do not mend your ways, your destiny would be pale in comparison.

When we heard the news that the major road being constructed will pass through our village, we felt great joy. You must surely remember the dance in the village square the night the contractors arrived. Young maidens tied lappas around their flawlessly moulded buttocks and hung waist beads that emphasised their womanly curves. I remember their faces alight with perfection and their dance steps call for attention. Your sister’s beauty was not on display that night; she did not even join in the dance. She sat with me in a quiet corner away from the spotlight, and it was in this corner that she drew the attention of the chief engineer. He was blind to the wicked charms of the other maidens; he became a captive of your sister’s grace.

Your sister is fortunate and deserves praise. Why are you hateful?

Is it her fault that a veil has been cast over your beauty and you have no suitors? I offer burnt offerings at the shrine of Fatu’s fame and unscathed reputation. Smell the incense, Adama, as all your peers do, and I hope the sweet fragrance will lead you onto the right path.

Now I must catch the largest fowl and roast it whole; look in the barn for the biggest tubers of cassava, the choicest of last season’s harvest. Today, I shall cook, adding a special touch to my practised hand of perfection; after all, my mother taught me well.

Pout if you will, and may the gods freeze that sulky look on your face for all eternity. I shall now keep my eyes focused on the road ahead. My daughter is coming to visit today. My blessed daughter—a fortunate wife.

Adama

What if I wear a short skirt? Does that make me a whore? But my mother, like a palm tree,  is old and steadfast in her outdated ways. She grew up at a time when two twigs were rubbed together to start a fire for the evening meal. So, for her, fashion is evil.

She follows, to the letter, the scripts our forefathers wrote with regards to who they consider a virtuous woman. The type of woman who wears long lappas and blows at the flames underneath the evening pot till smoke suffocates her and tears run down her face, to ensure that her husband has a hot meal.  This is the life my mother knows. This is the way her mother lived. I watch her glow with pride as my sister follows this road of servitude. And because I refuse to accept this life, she brands me a disgrace.

My sister did, and for that, I do not condemn her. She refuses to be moved by the tide of westernisation that has sailed to our village’s shore. Almost every other young girl is fascinated when traders arrive with wigs that promise to add lustre to the jewel of their beauty. They dance in a frenzy when songs that speak unashamedly of the pleasures of lovemaking are played. Of course, mothers shake and hang their heads as if ashamed, as if dancing is an abomination. So, my sister’s adherence to the old ways fills my mother with pride.

Mother says my sister’s virtues are rewarded because a rich man from the city fell for her charms at a village dance. Yes, her husband is generous and takes care of our family’s needs, but is Fatu’s life complete? I do not hate my sister, but I am different. She is sugar; I am salt. I get tired of being judged by her standards and criticised because I am not like her.

So, grudgingly, I shall help prepare the evening meal for her arrival. I shall accept my mother’s insults and listen to her singing my sister’s praises. My sister follows the ways of the old and is rewarded with good fortune; I will follow my own way and see what fortune awaits me.

I want to be a fortunate woman, but my good fortune needs not be linked to any man.

Fatu

My people say on the day I was born, it rained in the middle of the dry season. It was not just a few friendly drizzles of tinkering raindrops. It was a storm that swept aside, with humiliating ease, the thatched roofs and washed away the vats, crops, and soil from the fields.

My mother was oblivious to this chaos, for as the rain intensified, so did her pain, as I clawed my path into existence. The torrential downpour meant the midwife could not be summoned, so she had to do it alone.

Because I was born on the day it rained on a hot April afternoon, people said I was destined for greatness. Now their thoughts are justified because I am blessed. Good fortune is my precious ornament; I carry it around me like waist beads.

I remember the day my husband asked for my hand in marriage. Despite all the joy of the moment, I was perplexed. Why me? My beauty was subtle; it was not the kind that would turn heads at the village stream. Why did he not marry the sophisticated girls in the city? Surely, his look, his job, his cars, and his houses were enough to impress any of them. Everyone craves good luck, but my fortune scared me.

My mother allayed my fears with reassuring words,

“My daughter, your good deeds are not unnoticed by the gods; they have blessed you with a good husband.”

So, I said yes to the engineer from the big city. The marriage celebration was a whirlwind of activities. In the evening, I went home with my husband. Home was several hundred miles away, farther than I had ever been with a man I barely knew. Home was a beautiful house, beautiful beyond my wildest dreams.

My husband is kind, but I quickly realised he was not in love with me. In my village, I had seen couples sit under the moonlight and revel in each other’s company. I saw the way they looked at each other; my husband has never looked at me like that. In his eyes, I see a silent scorn that reminds me that I am an out of place village girl.

With time, the mystery of his interest in me unravelled itself. Reginald wanted a traditional wife: wide-eyed and innocent, unsophisticated, easy to manage. He wanted a woman with few wants and few troubles who would cook his meals and keep silent, who asked few questions. The city girls were too unpredictable, too demanding; a village girl was a safer choice.  But my husband is also greedy. He wants to have his cake and eat it. He has a virtuous woman who stays at home, content to warm his bed and wait for him to come at any time he chooses. Then, he has the city girls he parties with; the ones he takes out to fancy restaurants and posh hotels.

He does not bother to pretend or to keep this a secret. He brags about it with his friends whilst I serve them food and drinks. I am just a simple-minded village girl, after all. 

Yet, my mother raised me better than to complain. People think I am fortunate, and in many ways, I am, but this marriage is not one of my fortunes.

Today, we visit my village. My family awaits us, and the village can’t wait to celebrate me and their son-in-law from the big city. They will chant my name and sing my praises. I will smile and pretend that there is no emptiness within me. And all everyone will see is Fatu, the fortunate wife.

About the Author

Jedidah Johnson is a medical doctor from Sierra Leone. Her debut novel Youthful Yearnings was published in 2014. Writing is her way to express herself without revealing how talkative she can be.